Dovahkiin's Aaskk Lovaas
by Elira Rose
Summary: "I am Dovahkiin - but I am not average. I am an Imperial woman, but I do not follow the customs my culture. I am a lover, a genius some say, a writer, an adventurer, and a warrior. To explain myself is far too complex a job. But know this...things are not what you thought they were. Do not expect things to be as you know them." I will edit the summary better later.


Dovahkiin's Aaskk Lovaas

Disclaimer: I only own my OC, and possible future OCs. Everything else belongs to the lovely Bethesda creators. Heck, I don't even own my copy of the game because my parents bought it! ;D

To reading!

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The rain cataracted from the clouded sky as if the Divines were crying along with the deflated Companions; their heartstrings tugging mournfully with the tribulation of this tragic incident. Ever so often, a bellow of deafening thunder would expel, and as an aftermath, a spercuss of lightning to pursue.

She had not felt this fragmented and endangered of abyss' encompassment since she had awoken in that Imperial-drawn wagon heading to Helgen - to her execution, or so had been the beginning calculation. That day she awoke to no recollection of any particle of her past. No remembrance of birthplace, not even a country's heading. No commemoration of her parents' names. No nothing. Just a hollow void in her mind that was shadowed in an onyx veil, like a black bride to be wed and pledged to a dark, uncharted marriage she did not will. Elira had yet to be quenched in an appropriate antidote, and she was unsure of whether one even existed, let alone what the thirsted medicine was.

But she still endured through every circumstance. She still pressed on, stubborn enough to have faith that either gods or daedra or some supernatural organism still had a purpose she was a necessity for. Some thing, or some being, that could urge her to compel onward.

But right now, staring demise in the face, the ghastly pale complexion of her mentor, and father-figure, Kodlak. She felt the exact annul she had on that day. She felt as if she would always be solitude's puppet; an outcast and a loner. Never finding a place to call her own. Never procuring stability.

_**I do not feel like a hero told to children before bedtime, Akatosh. I do not feel like the prophesized Dragonborn. I feel as if I'm once more a little girl with no obvious path to follow. Nothing more than a small lily that needs to wilt and die off.**_

Kodlak White-Mane, struck down by the soiled blade of a Silver-Hand hunter. There he lied, dead, in his wooden sarcophagus that sat atop around ten stacked wood planks, and the wood planks atop the Sky Forge. On each side of the wood planks were the scarlet and gold drapes, exact replicas of the ones hung all over the walls of Jorrvaskr. Along the stone edges of the Sky Forge were lit candlesticks, and in between each space of the candlesticks were more of the drapes, though aligned in more half-circle arrangements than the rectangular of the ones on the planks. Around each candlestick were wreaths of snowberries.

Surrounding the coffin-to-be were all her Companions. She stood between Vilkas and Farkas. To her right, was Farkas, to her left, was Vilkas, the twins. Two of her closest friends, as close as brothers, sharing the same 'gift' as she, Kodlak, Aela, and long-dead Skjor all bore, some shamelessly in their membership if the Circle.

The bequest all elites of the Circle carried was the power to take upon a form of a wolf-man, some on dictation, and some only by exposure to rays of the moonlight. It could be either an affliction or a privilege, depending in the haulier's point of view.

There was a single row of more people and Companions standing behind them, in the same complex taciturnity, their manner of stance forming a gentle circle around the lesser, upper row, in which Elira was present.

_**How hilarious. A circle around The Circle. One could cackle just because it is so dumb, yet still amusement-worthy.**_

Behind, starting at Farkas' right was Athis, the Dunmer who always seemed to fancy Njada. Brill, a quiet and obliging man who often told of Vignar Gray-Mane being the rationale that kept him kicking. From there, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun, Danica Pure-Spring - she remembered helping the woman restore the Gildegreen back to it's magnificent glory - Njada Stone-Arm, - who seemed to still loathe her guts - Ria, Torvar the drunk, Vignar Gray-Mane, Avenicci, the Jarl's steward, and Tilma. Beside Vilkas was Aela the Huntress, and next to Aela was Eorlund Gray-Mane.

Irileth could not be helped to join, Elira noted with a slice of antagonism filtering through her stomach. That Dunmer's only appreciation seemed to be for her own predilections. She could not even pause to exhibit the funeral of a hero who assisted in sheltering Whiterun, the city that Dunmer so devotedly managed by the Jarl's insight.

Elira grit her jaw tightly, the scraping over her molars against each other the only action to keep her from marching up to Dragonsreach and hauling that pompous excuse for and elf into the waterfall that was connected to said mansion. Perhaps that would help the Dark Elf to grasp her extreme distaste toward her ways. But not even Irileth's exasperating attitude would make her miss the funeral of her beloved Harbinger.

Kodlak look so peaceful, so content in his state. Dead. Eyes glazed over, although closed for the funeral. Dead. His white tresses and beard not nearly as vibrant as when he lived. Dead. Body dreadfully cold, the warmth having receded along with his life. Dead. Blood vanquished from his veins.

Dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead unto the most indiscernible minerals of life's cycle.

Worse yet to be pronounced, she had not been present to defend him, and perhaps hinder this foul play that could have been avoided. But she had been off toying with witches. And now guilt was gnawing on her joy, taunting her with this like a whip slashing away unblemished flesh.

For the fondness of the Nine Divines, he did not even get the venture to be cured of his beast blood! His only wish. His only dying hope, to be able to eternally walk the halls of Sovngarde, rather than forever hunt in Hircine's realm. And he was robbed of that by death. _**Screw you to Oblivion, Silver-Hands. I swear to the gods I will not surrender until I make sure you know who you wronged. **_

She retraced Kodlak's last words to her through the follicles of her psychosis, his soothing reprimand on her and Aela's raid of butchering the Silver-Hand. It tazed through her philosophy process like running a strawberry taffy string through her prongs. She was no twit, but he uncovered the raw fact that she was no as intelligent as she first presumed.

Leisurely, her wrath dwindled to leave a mere ache of her redundant adrenaline rowing through her vessels. Being a werewolf caused her rage to blaze easier than when she was mortal, leaving behind the singe of her destruction. That was one side-affect she was not too keen about. It feasted greedily upon her sins, like a sabre cat's chops brutally tearing the tissue away from an elk's carcass. Or a werewolf consuming the tendons and plasma of their victim - beast or being.

_**Great metaphor, Elira. Way to be optimistic. **_She chided herself uncompassionately.

Kodlak had always discouraged vengeance, and never wished for a race to be annihilated. So if she took revenge on the faulted, then she was doing exactly what Kodlak would not request. And the sheer design of disappointing him sent ripples shame accost her vertebrae.

Her resolve's last thread was severed immediately after these views, and everything came crashing down at her feet to distress her even more than she already was. There was no stopping it, there was controlling her rationality from once more becoming corrupt. There was just her and detrimental agony.

With a declined head forward, she visibly buried her face in her palms, incompetent of shielding the shakes that overwhelmed her physique, but trying to conceal the waterworks that rained down her cheeks. Silent she was, as she bawled out her anguish. The indents of her handprints were palpable against the pores on her facial structure, the sense of touch more in tune than hearing. Brilliant, she could not concentrate on the substance of the funeral, but she could take notice of her friction skin ridges.

She bore like such a child, but she could not be as strong as she opted herself to be. She was devastated, and devastation was one of her worse weaknesses. Like a fire atronach for water, devastation stole her life away little by little...piece by piece...flicker by flicker...

She heard some things said from her brothers and sisters by luck, in spite of her self-desecrated pity. Some gloomy farewells were uttered to their late and venerated Harbinger, but the grief rang so loud in her eardrums she could not catch more than a few scraps of what was spoken. It would not flabbergast her if she was to find that there really were drums of angst in her ears.

She was Dragonborn. She had to withstand more than this setback. She had to be more robust than the delicate porcelain she found herself molding to as each catastrophe transpired like the leaves of a tome. The virtual sword of nihism that was wielded by malice could conquer more parts of her mentality frame than the domain it already ruled.

But though her build's reservoir and mass were resilient, her state of grandeur and lucidity saluted disheartened prowess.

She had not been aware of her birthright very long, only a month at best. After retrieving the Dragonstone, Farenger, the Jarl's court wizard, had so unquestionably needed (and that had not been a minor gallivant, mind you. She traipsed into an ancient crypt of Bleak Falls Barrow, had to take on handfuls of bandits, Draugr, a giant Frostbite Spider, and a Frost Troll. All for the sake of that bloody stone. And do not even get her started on that odd symbol that had glowed and briefly rendered her senses blind), right after that she had been required to take down a dragon. _**A huge fire-breathing lizard. **_Because Balgruuf has said she had 'experience' with the menaces.

So, nearly getting her head chopped off after crossing a border(which she still could not dredge up doing), getting shouted(yes, _**shouted**_) at by a huge demonic, coal-scaled, fire-breathing, evil-eyed, meteor-crashing-to-earth-causing dragon, and then nearly massacred by said dragon more than once, as the Stormcloaks aided her in escaping(Ralof of Riverwood had so selflessly helped her get out of that gods-forsaken city, and then turned around proclaiming she was the hero). She had experience.

Well, then they were all undoubtedly screwed.

But she would be proved mistaken.

It was soon announced that there was more to her than even she knew of herself, as it so came with most heroes who wound their way into historical texts. With the help of Whiterun's guard, Irileth, and Jenassa, her loyal Dunmer guardian, they had progressively taken down the malevolent dragon with nocked bows, unaccountable sears of arrows, and jagged punctures of blades and axes.

They had all been psyched at this victory, despite the severe losses of brave men that could hardly be replenished. It was not an easy battle, and it was not the last. There was still a war to be won, and one meager triumph did little to alter such a huge descending ruin that was certain to befall them all.

But, no, a Morndas' work could not stop there. The gods had requested more of her abilities still that day. They were not finished fatiguing their protagonist. She never wanted to be a heroine, she could not be one. If she held the preservation of Nirn in the folds of her hands, guaranteed downfall would become their captors. How could anyone - especially the Nine Divines - expect her, a meager mortal who was without a doubt more flawed than what was ordinary.

By gods, she could not even remember her past! What did they play her for?

She had some expertise, but not enough to become an avenger of life, and defeat a slaughtering evil that was prophesized to demolish every single living, breathing, bleeding thing on Nirn.

Not without doubting, somehow, someway, she had begun coping with this revelation, and did her best to begin gratifying her destiny as Dragonborn, that had all gone under way after the dragon's end.

Beset with the a population of arrows he had been struck with - the nocks and crests stimulating from abundant places - the multi-place bloodied, silver and blue scaled dragon had progressed to catch afire in transfusions of flush, his beautiful scales burning away in ash and becoming billows of smoke in the air before their eyes. She remembered the horrible smell of baking flesh and sulfuric acid that burned her nostrils and throat, but captivated her so she was paralyzed in a trance and did not influence the willpower to move away. Heat teased her nape at her proximity of the smoldering cadaver. Such a marvelous, yet tormenting scene.

But not even that had been the end. Oh, never. That would be too dull.

She still did not flinch a muscle, as if an unseen force kept her boots glued to the ground and even disconnected panic from her limbs and resolve. Her eyes never batted an eyelash; her lips did not quiver; and her body did not tremble. She just exhibited in heightened fascination, the light of the inferno dancing in her irises reflection.

The 'flare' of lavender, peach, and ruby had swirled around the dragon's corpse, and then gone into her _**chest **_and _**eyes. **_As soon as the cloud had penetrated her skin, the sensation as if a blade that had just been taken out of the forge was pressed against the inside of her breastbone intruded her internals. She could not breathe; her lungs would not inhale or exhale her needed oxygen. They burned as if hot coals were set on them, and her eyes were blinded in a crimson haze. And that was not even the hideous part of it. The colorful soul had become one with her own, its talons clawing at her very own, determined to bind itself to her's.

It shared its own thought process. Its own memories. It's own sentiments. And all of those had gone into her. Murmulnir's soul had combined with her own to become one entity. And she was the bearer of two selves, her own and Murmulnir's.

She had a bloody dragon soul notched with her own, like a web a Frostbite Spider wrought. By Akatosh.

She remembered the guards calling her a funny title of 'Dragonborn', and asking her to Shout. The wayward of their tones signifying they did not mean the drab raise of vocal.

Upon being urged, she Shouted (not knowing how in bloody Oblivion she even did it), before that day she had not known she could do such a mystifying event. All she had to do was set her mind to it, open her mouth, and out came some syllable that related to 'Fus'!

Akatosh help her.

It had startled the living daylight out of her, yet the guards had been giddy with her voice. They seemed familiar with the idealism of Shouting, and tried their best to explain it to her. But she only became more perplexed and on the verge of tears. She had not been as stark as even her frail self now, and crying was an often occurrence for her.

The first few weeks, controlling the ravenous soul had been more than an impossible task. Many occurrences she felt as if she did not have restraint anymore, and that Murmulnir had taken over her body forever this time. But after much practice, constructive dedication, and exhausting endurance, she had learned to tame the beast, if only for a little while. It was still a very hindering process.

On the day of first deciphering her largesse, after the phenomenon with her first dragon slay, tuned with what she had just endorsed, she had trailed back to Whiterun in hopes of recovering some of her lucidity. And then, up to steps of Dragonsreach to liberate the occurred events to the Jarl, an ignition of a reverberating boom that formed the words 'Dovahkiin' had erupted in the sky, momentarily darkening the sunny day.

She had crumpled to her knees, having the incapability of standing through such an unexpected episode.

She just could not catch a break that day.

Balgruuf had explained upon beckoning that it was the Greybeards were summoning her to High Hrothgar. A seven-thousand foot climb up a frosty mountain to a temple homed to an old monks who brooded of The Way of the Voice. It gave her a migraine just thinking about it.

Since, she had absorbed three more dragon souls since then. The same way, more memories, emotions, and thoughts. Each time she had to regain control of herself. Each time another dragon soul was added, the job had become more taxing and complicated to once more have the reins of her own body. It was a battle that could not be explained in plain words so that others could comprehend the overwhelming saturation in her being, and it was one that never slept.

She had quickly taken Balgruuf's advice, and journeyed up every one of those steps to meet those rogue monks. What she thought would be more of a challenge had actually come a refreshing relief. They had taught her to control her Voice better, instructing her more Words of Power, and even gave her hungrily-received advice. And continually did so.

They were such kind men who sincerely cared about her well-being and prosperity. She would never forget what they did for her.

But one thing they could not help with was governing the raging souls inside her. Sadly, they admitted defeat in such an art. There had been no mortal with Dragonblood since Martin Septim himself, almost two-hundred years ago. They even queried that her sudden appearance struck at an odd and unexpected timing, as Martin Septim had no known children that had ever been recorded.

So she was still on her own with the Dragon souls, who daily put up a fuss and robbed her of sleep often. Not even mead or wine could drown out her exertion and hidden conflict, and she had tried more than once. But the alcohol did numb...other aches.

As had been depicted, she could not remember a single aspect of her past life. She knew common sense and herself, her first name, but nothing of her history. The story that formed the person she was sat a mystery. All she knew was that she was lonely Dovahkiin, destined to rid Nirn of the World-Eater, Alduin, who just so happened to be the same dragon at Helgen.

A small world indeed.

But she pressed on, she always got back up. She buried her inner problems in lock and threw away the key until it found its way to the surface again. It was her only way of coping.

She was of common height for an Imperial woman at superior, perhaps a bit on the taller if one essentialized technicalities bestowed. Her tendrils of hair always had a natural set of waves wafting around her shoulder blades, with two identical braids against each ear. The dominant color was sienna, but if one was a vigilant bloke or missy, they might find that there was, in actuality, four contrary shades of brown merging together. The former, sienna; auburn; bronze; and taupe. These tones were exceptionally noticeable when her mane was unhidden in the sunlight, or was damp.

Her eyes were glassy orbs of ocean-blue hue, round and large, one of her more first obtainable attributes in her heart shaped face. They always laughed with vivid impression, beguiling to deduce you knew what plunged through those pools, but actually, only skipped in befuddling circles to never offer stable facts. To compliment those two features, the gods had given her a fair complexion that did not go blemishless - a tattered white scar curved in the shape of a claw stood out under her left eye, younger than two winters, and plenty of skin flecks in varied places.

The scar was just another tickled detail that left her mind blank on the area of gaining such an intense thing.

Her build was generously toned and muscled, from numerous exercises and fighting techniques to keep her body fat percentage from picking up in numbers. Healthy, but not anemic, and not blubbery. She would be in allowance of pretty and curvy, but more than capable of using her body as a weapon if the time arose.

She had never told anyone what really went on in her complex, for she was not only apprehensive at the mere thought of being left vulnerable. But she could not even imagine hurting worse than she did; the unavoidable affliction of more scars muddying her unrecognizable innocence. She had too much at stake that could collapse at anymore alteration of her state of health and mind. Her steadiness was too invaluable to put at risk for a brief reliever, and she was strong. She would be okay; she knew she was more than able of handling her mucked burdens on her own. She always had.

She even had joined the Companions, became a part of The Circle. Unmistakably, since she now indulged the closed eyes of the man who taught her every defense and battle ability she now influenced. The old man who seemed to know she was not intact, yet did not press her to reveal the factor. The man who had loved her like his own daughter, and the man who had esteemed her regardless of her patent flaws and distinct mistakes.

Skjor had died awhile back. His death had taken its toll, very rigid, especially on poor Aela who hid the undeniable verity under a mask of fury. Despite always observant that Elira never could succeed anything to his standards, she knew he liked her. And he had been a Shield-Brother, and she still missed him and his usual 'whelp' comments.

They had administrated their way of languishing furtively by nearly obliterated out the Silver-Hand. When gaining wind of this, Kodlak had been disappointed, but still empathetic of their depression. He had been, without argument, the most enamored Harbinger.

Skjor's had been tough, but Kodlak's fall... Kodlak threatened to punch away her walls of sanity that she so delicately built to house her anxieties.

The embrace that disturbed her subconscious, and saved her from fall deeper into the remorse that deteriorated her esteem, was an set of burly, armored arms enfolding around her torso. He pulled her into himself, into his comforting body warmth, and into his chest as an action of affection and security. The scent of pine and sweat was acquainted with her familiarity, was none other than her best friend in the Companions, Farkas. The pale-eyed, dark-haired, rough-skinned, and large-framed Nord who people often teased at being not-so-bright.

Well, he may not have held the throne of most clever, but he had a bigger heart than many of those 'geniuses' behind their ribs. And he was _**most assuredly **_not a fool.

He was the brother she never recounted having, and the first person who actually looked to her as more than an outlander. He was friendly from the start, liked her since her arrival. Not because he favorited everyone - but because he sensed whom could be trusted. Trust had evolved into an unstoppable friendship between them, friendship into an impenetrable bond, and that bond enhanced with the essence of brotherly love.

So she did not hesitate to press her face into his ribcage, and let go of all that burdened her as she unashamedly wept. The rump-a-pump-pump beats of his organ, the heart, she could hear with little focus, and helped soothe the edge off her emotional disability. And she knew, from the way he confined his limbs around her so calmly, pushing away his own sorrow to lull her, he would not let her go until he was induced she was alright.

He was without a misclaim the most altruistic Nord she knew in that moment, and she was the most pitiful Imperial ever to walk the paths of Skyrim, and perhaps Nirn itself.

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A/N: Lo and behold, I bequest this first chapter unto thee! Heehee. ;) Wellllllll, first off, I'd like to say I probably restarted this darned thing five times before being content with its state. I did not want to start in the cliché' carriage-with-Stormcloaks-delimma, but instead just explain the major stuff that has happened so far. I will be putting my own twists on many plots, so beware. And there is a SLIGHT possibility I could switch to someone else's POV, but that will be very rare for this fic.

Yes, this is a re-do of my old Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim fic; Dovahkiin Peyt. Meh, I just didn't like my capture of Elira's character, nor the turns I was slowly descending in. The process of reeling in the relationships would have been a drag, because of HOW many there were in general, but now I have a few already rooted and that will pressure the flow a bit easier.

Back to why I did not like my character capturing; Elira started off vulnerable, yes, and I she still clearly has it. But I wanted her feistier, y'know? More confident and ferocious. Which, after my many failures, I think I have finally done it!

Yes, it is long, and yes, I do love that. Long chapters are gorgeous. I just hope you do not dislike my constant depth of details, explanations, and colorful vocabulary. Just because someone loves to explain in deep flesh everything, that does not mean they are 'overbearing' or 'exaggerating', as so many people complain. It means that, that is our writing style. I, myself, am keen with more feeling and detail than talking (but don't get scared, there will be plenty of the art of speech). If you don't like my writing style, I understand. But I do ask you don't bad-mouth and call me an exaggerator or over-bearing use of words. Frankly, don't be a jerkhead. I do appreciate suggestions and gentle criticism, or help if my knowledge is off(I'm not genius, so I'll make mistakes. :l), but when you flat out offend my writing style, that hurts, and instead of lifting up the author it brings them down. Oh, and don't give me pouts over the fact my name choices may or may not be accurate. Sorry, I'm a picky person on names, and if I like it, I'm not going to change just because it's not 'correct Nordic, Breton, etc'. I also don't have the time to sit at a flipping computer for hours just to find a name that's Nordic and I like. I like different, anyway. Sorry if you don't like it. But it's my choice.

Yes, be GENTLE with me. Suggestions, questions, kind corrections, and reviews are welcome. But please do be kind...I am very sensitive, and take too many things to heart. I realize the many flaws my writings still dance with, but an author is never 'there', we all have things still to learn, and I am trying. Seriously, reviews are LOVED... That's partially why I failed in completing some of my fanfics... )': No one reviewed, and it made me decide it was crap and no one liked it. So I shall have Sheogorath make daedric strawberry tarts for anyone who reviews.

If there are little errors(spelling, grammar, vocab, etc) I am sorry... I did proofread this(three dang times if you can believe it), and edit, but there is a good possibility you may come across some I missed.

Do not expect any sexual interaction that includes the 'bed', if you gather my meaning. I do not write that. There may be suggestive sexual at best (even that is a stretch) but I will not go as far as to write that into my stories. Sure, it obviously happens, especially when my little Elira gets married, but it wont be actually written in.

I also will not have gay/bi/lesbian (sorry, I do not support it, but that doesn't mean I hate you for it. I just simply don't have my characters be that way. Don't take any offense, I mean none). It's just not my place to write it.

I also shall apologize in advance if I don't update as often as you may like. I am insanely busy with the upcoming school again, writing my book, friends, life, etc. Plus, I will probably have a lot of future fanfics to keep up with(God help me, I'm going to kill myself with how many I'll have). I'll at least ATTEMPT getting a chapter up a week, if not sooner. But no promises, there are so many possibilities that could prevent it.

And there was my rant. :) Anything I left out shall be mentioned in the next chapter. Thank you to all who bore that, and to all who read, review, and favorite this if I am so blessed to receive!

-Ray Ray


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